March 2015

The joy of spring! Cherry blossoms explode in pink puff balls. Days get longer. Crocus push up from the cold ground to seek the sun, and Ahhhhchewww! Allergies. For those of us who suffer, spring brings renewal and life, and an excruciating inner ear, inner throat itch. I find myself wanting to jam a sharp dental instrument deep in my ear to scratch the itch.

My husband calls me Felix Unger, and it is not because I am a neat freak. I make a strange honking noise while trying to eradicate the tickly fiery feeling in my ears and throat. I thought I had tried every over and under the counter med, shot, Neti Pot, nasal spray and EpiPen® in the universe, with nominal results.

My main line of defense is napping. A lot of napping; bordering on hibernation. I recently discovered something elementary, that changed my allergy calculus; Sudafed®. Not only does it dry my sinuses, but my energy level flies off the Richter Scale. Apparently it’s a stimulant. I pop one of those little red pills in the morning, and I am the most cheerful carpool mom on the road. When I go to the gym, I run the track like the Tasmanian Devil, on….um, Sudafed® . I run stairs, and execute mountain climbers and burpees like I’m starring in a fitness video. I tie weights to my wrists and ankles. I sing along with Eminem at the top of my lungs, “Shake that #$% for me!” But then a disturbing thought crosses my mind; am I addicted to Sudafed®?

As I am racing around the track for the fiftieth time, I imagine myself on celebrity rehab. Maybe they would throw me in as the ingenue from Seattle. The naiive, non-celebrity house wife with an over the counter pill problem. I could be holed up in a luxurious manse in the Hollywood Hills, my days filled with lounging by the pool and self-indulgent therapy.

Mel Gibson Crazy

I can see myself brawling with Mel Gibson. “Too bad you can’t go to rehab for racism!” I yell.

I encourage Leif Garrett to get it together and make a comeback on the Indian Casino circuit.

I think I could help Chris Brown with his anger management issues. Every time he flies off the handle, I will hand him a picture of little kittens. When he’s built trust, I will provide real kittens that sweetly mew, and calm his frazzled nerves.

As for Crazy Town’s Shifty Shellshock, I will tell him to look on the bright side; he is highly employable at Champion’s Party Supply Store.

Like this:

I’m a binge Facebook consumer. Weeks, maybe even months go by. Then I find myself sucked into the vortex as I endlessly scroll. There’s the cryptic “Thanks everyone for your support while I was sick,” posting. Hey, would you mind adding a little detail? Was it a common cold or Ebola? For those of us who weren’t there for you, it’s hard to know the level of guilt and alarm we should feel.

There are the far right, and the far left rants, which eerily sound like the same rhetoric. There are the inspirational quotes, that change your life, and even a few Bible passages. No offense to The Big Man and God Jr., but the more I try to understand these quotes, the more garbled they sound. I realize a few millenniums have passed since this all went down, and there have been many translations since. I suppose it’s a bit like a game of telephone, so I’m willing to let the obtuse language slide. I’ll leave the interpretation to those who are really in the know.

I’m a sucker for the random nostalgic postings. Over the weekend, a friend posted a grainy “Photomat finish” photo from Cinco de Mayo, year 2000, and it all came rushing back. This was not your average, run of the mill, “Taco Tuesday Party”. The dress code was come as your favorite Latin celebrity. Party goers embraced the theme. Latin lovers, coffee moguls, pop stars, and the requisite revolutionaries; Don Juan, Juan Veldez, J Lo, Che Gueverra, and Poncho Villa were represented. We had three Carmen Mirandas. (Or were they Chiquita Banana?) Chi Chi Rodriquez met his future wife at our party, and yes, they are still married.

Tequila flowed like the Rio Grande. Someone I won’t mention, barfed in our hedges, and the police showed up not once, but twice. Fortunately my husband, in full Mr. Roarke-welcome-to-Fantasy–Island-white-suited-regalia assuaged them with his charm. Tatoo fetched them taquitos and refreshing beverages garnished with colorful umbrellas.